Drip, Drip, Drip
by Allibella731
Summary: "Drip, drip, drip. Lacette? Katniss? Finnick? I reach desperately, grabbing at thin air, because something keeps me holding onto nothing...What am I holding on for?" In the Capitol, Johanna is going insane. Winner of the March Starvation Monthly Prompt!


**Drip…Drip…Drip**

**Starvation Monthly Prompt—March 2012: Insanity**

**Story Word Count: 911**

**Johanna Mason**

_Drip, drip, drip…_

_They can't hurt me. I'm not like the rest of you. There's no one left I love._

_Drip, drip, drip…_

I can hear the drops of water. Drip, drip, drip. They do not cling to my skin. I know that any second the pain will come. Drip, drip, drip. Why?

Drip, drip, drip…for Finnick. For Katniss. For mom and dad and Lacette. Drip, drip, drip. They were bleeding. Did Lacette hear the drip, drip, drip as her life slip, slip, slipped away? Nobody told me. Nobody told me it would hurt so much. I needed to get home for mom and dad and Lacette. Nobody told me that there was no home to return to.

…But the pain of the shock is fresh every time. And _the drip, drip, drip_, it's driving me mad.

_Are you ready to talk now?_

_Are you ready now?_

_Ready now?_

_Ready?_

Ready? Because here it comes…drip, drip, drip—_pain. _But how can I be ready for it? Lacette's laugh, I can hear it in my head. As the drip, drip, drip of the water splashing on me—of my own blood slipping off of my skin—creates a symphony of sound, accompanied by the memories, I can almost feel the drip, drip, drip of _her _blood.

I wish I had the Girl on Fire. I am not afraid of fire. I am afraid of the drip, drip, drip—pain, and everything it makes me think of. Are there tears, mixing with the water, stinging the cuts that haven't scabbed over? I thought I was done with tears. I thought I was all cried out the day I saw her grave. Drip, drip, drip…it had been raining, hadn't it? Drip, drip, drip…the raindrops masked the tears. But now the water is suffocating. I cannot sleep. I try to eat—I eat Peeta's food and am even stupid enough to try to take Enobaria's, because there has to be some way to fill up the emptiness inside of me, but it doesn't work. And every shock causes me to vomit anything I manage to swallow. Drip, drip, drip—pain. Will it ever end? What am I doing? I can't even remember what I am holding on to. All I can see is that small white cross, grey in the mist, that marked her grave. The pine needles I spread over it, to keep it fresh, like she would have wanted. She always loved the smell of pine. Drip, drip, drip. Her eyes were precisely the grey-blue of water.

Drip, drip, drip. _Lacette? Katniss? Finnick? _I reach desperately, grabbing at thin air, because _something_ keeps me holding onto nothing. _Something_ won't let me give in. What am I holding on for? The drip, drip, drip—pain? I can't remember what the sun feels like, what dry pine needles feel like under my feet, what the scratchy, sardonic laugh I have become so famous for sounds like. I don't think I could speak, given the opportunity. If I could, what would I say? _Drip, drip, drip_? The symphony of sound, screams and dripping blood, the red sheen on the reflective silver of the axe and the final cannon, the pounding of the rain on that day, the way I can no longer feel my own body…there are no words for these feelings, these memories. All I can do is listen to the drip, drip, drip. I am lost without her. I am lost without a purpose, and I am going mad. The drip, drip, drip keeps time with the beat of my empty heart. There is nobody left for me to care about. Lacette is gone, and even Peeta is gone, so far gone that we sit in our adjoining cells at night and we are silent as a grave…silent as _her _grave...at least I think we are. Maybe he talks. I can't hear it over the drip, drip, drip that invades my mind. The dripping of water that has come to represent the pain and the memories and the harsh, cruel reality that _I have no one left. _I don't think Peeta talks, though—I think he screams. Because there is screaming in the symphony that I can only attribute to Peeta Mellark. Nobody else has a voice like him. Drip, drip, drip…the water around me is rising, and soon it will drown me. I wish I could rekindle the fire inside of me that drove me so far. But wet wood doesn't burn…it only smolders. I have to protect myself.

…

Drip, drip, drip. The pain won't leave. I can't seal the cracks in my pathetic wall. I don't think I will ever be able to. I have nobody to help me. No Lacette to bail out the rising water, no Finnick to carry me while he swims away, no Katniss to burn off the moisture. Just Peeta. Fucking Peeta. Fucking Peeta, screaming, adding to my symphony. Fucking Peeta, in love with Katniss Everdeen. He has something to hold on to. I hate him for it. But I love him for it, because it means that those silent nights (are they silent? Or is he screaming?) I can look through the window and see in his eyes that reasons do exist.

Drip, drip, drip. Am I crazy?

Drip, drip, drip. Have I gone 'round the bend?

Drip, drip, drip…the realization hits me then. I will always be terrified. But I don't give a damn.

**A/N: There are 911 words in the story (not counting the title/description). It was really fun to write, but also really hard. It didn't feel enough like Johanna sometimes, but I like it. Constructive criticism is always welcome, as well as any commentary.**

**Lacette is an OC I created from District 7. Whether you read her as a girlfriend, a best friend, or a sister is all up to your personal interpretation. Thanks for reading!**


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